Our house has a new, paw occupant. If it is not so Instagrammable, its furry reign of terror will be hell

My wife and I were watching TV, but there was a loud and long-lasting friction under the sofa, from one end to the other, and then back.

"Can you turn it over?" I said. My wife pointed the remote control at the screen. A small gray thing flew out from under the sofa, swept across the room, stopped at the corner of the carpet to take a bite, and then disappeared under the table.

"Explain," I said, "how is this different from the rodent problem."

"This is a kitten," my wife said.

"It's the size of a mouse," I said. "And it mainly does rat things."

"I'm trying to watch this," she said. At that moment, I felt a series of fine needles pierce the skin of my leg through my pants. As the needle moved up the shin bone, I gritted my teeth until a small face stared at me from above my knees.

"Can I help you?" I said.

In the 15 years since we last raised a kitten, I have forgotten how much worry I have: you must always pay attention to avoid stepping on it, and you must check that it is not in the dishwasher before opening it. You spend half of your time looking for it inside, and the other half patiently let it untie your pullover from the sleeves, because at least you know where it is. As long as you want to play with it, it falls asleep, and then it stands on your plate while you are eating.

At first I spent a lot of time trying to exhaust the cat by playing with it, but it never gets tired of anything. My wife bought a small plastic fishing rod with a piece of rope and a small fish on the other end. Using this to entertain cats is actually a bit like fishing, but unlike bass, cats always bite people. Eventually, I learned to support the pole between the two sofa cushions so that I could read.

The kitten is here and knows how to use the litter box. This is a bonus item, although it will do something later-cleverly bounce the feces into the middle of the room, like a golfer hits a sand pit-I don't know it Where did you learn it.

"When you are no longer cute," I told it, "None of this will be tolerated." At the same time, however, it seems to understand that everything it does can be posted on Instagram.

One morning, about a week after it arrived, I went downstairs and found the kitten riding a tortoise in the kitchen. I like to think that I can judge the tortoise's misfortune well. I saw all the signs: the drooping eyes, the craned neck, the pee lake in full bloom behind him.

"You can't do this," I said to the cat. "You make him feel bad." The cat glanced at me and said: Did you take a photo?

"Okay," I said, taking out my phone.

Even the tortoise is not as unhappy as the dog, it is at the same time confused and frightened by its new enemy. Over the years, the dog and the old cat have reached a kind of uneasy relief, except for occasional confrontations on either side of the cat's petals. Now the dog is being tracked for at least six hours a day, even if it is sleeping. Its patience seemed bottomless, but its nerves began to wear down.

I was also followed: when I walked into the kitchen, the kitten jumped out of a trash can and faced me, then changed his mind in mid-air and retracted again as if being pulled by a rubber band.

"When can I live outside?" I said to my wife.

"Two weeks later," she said, picking up the kitten from the hiding place.

"It's been two weeks," I said.

"He needs to be chopped off first," she said. "And he needs a second injection. Take it."

She handed me one end of a large plastic syringe and clamped its tip between the kitten's chin.

"Well, squeeze," she said. The kitten doesn't like this at all.

"What's that?" I said.

"Insect repellent," my wife said.

"When was there a bug?" I said.

"They all have worms," ​​she said.

"They all have bugs?" I said.

"They are born with worms," ​​she said and let go of the cat.

"I can't believe what I heard," I said. "This cat passes by my lunch every day."

"He shouldn't be on the table," my wife said.

The cat put itself behind the legs of the table, and it sat there, looking up at me with kitten eyes.

"Worm," I said. "There is nothing to post on Instagram."